


home

by hailingstars



Series: unbelievably unlikely (febuwhump 2020) [7]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Death, Dark Peter Parker, Dark state of mind, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Kidnapped Peter Parker, LITERALLY, Leather Bound Wrists, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Tony Stark, Superior Iron Man, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Villain Tony Stark, febuwhump 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22601560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailingstars/pseuds/hailingstars
Summary: “You were pretty certain he’d be here by now.”The truth was, he’d like to know. He needed to know. What was keeping Mr. Stark from coming and getting him? Maybe, he thought, he didn’t think Peter was worth being saved. Maybe he just didn’t care.“Clearly,” he said, as he moved a piece across the board. “You were wrong about your Tony Stark. That’s check, by the way.”Peter studied the board but shifted his eyes back to him. “I give up.”“Smart boy,” he told him. “A good man knows he’s beat.”ORPeter has been kidnapped and is forced to survive in a universe different, a universe ruled by Superior Iron Man, but surviving may mean there's nothing left of him once rescue finally does come.Febuwhump days 7 & 8: leather bound wrists & dark state of mind & farewell forever
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: unbelievably unlikely (febuwhump 2020) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619662
Comments: 124
Kudos: 636





	1. leather bound wrists

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekrest/gifts).



> this is a two-parter!! I have no self-control!! 
> 
> also gifted to the amazing seekrest because I know how much she loves dark!Peter and her insight made this fic 3000 times better than it would have been
> 
> and lastly! mind the tags! there's an avenger's death (not Tony or Peter) and it gets pretty dark!

Once, Peter had thought alternate universes were cool, but that was back when life was worrying about algebra and what Liz thought his sweater and trying to get Flash to shut up. That was back when he was concerned about Happy texting him back, about proving himself to Mr. Stark, about someday being an Avenger.

Peter definitely did _not_ want to be an Avenger anymore. He just wanted to go home.

Fake Mr. Stark liked to remind him that he was already home. He repeated it, over and over again, several times a day, and Peter was starting to get sick of hearing it.

It wasn’t true. He wasn’t home.

The room he was locked in wasn’t his bedroom. It was too big and luxurious and unnecessary. It was a very comfortable cage, but it was still a cage, and those shouldn’t be comfortable. It was confusing. It made Peter’s head hurt in a way he didn’t like.

The universe he was trapped in wasn’t even his universe, no matter how much it mirrored the way he came from.

The Mr. Stark he talked to everyday wasn’t his Mr. Stark, no matter how badly Peter wanted him to be.

His eyes were colder. His words cut deeper. His brown eyes were the same shade of Mr. Stark’s, but there was no warmth behind them. There was nothing at all behind them.

This Mr. Stark was the reason Peter wasn’t at home, on his twin mattress, or more likely, swinging through the streets of Queens. He wondered if Queens missed Spider-Man. He wondered if May missed him, or if Happy missed getting his texts, even though he never took the time to respond.

“I wonder why he hasn’t come for you yet,” said the fake Mr. Stark, as he set up the chess board on the floor between them. It was a ritual. It wasn’t always chess they played while they ate breakfast, but it was always a game Peter could never win. He was beginning to wonder why he kept trying. It was useless. “This other Tony Stark, from your world, the one you keep saying is better than me.”

Peter didn’t give him an answer. It’d been a long time since he had the energy to fight him using words. He popped a grape in his mouth and moved a pawn, not giving it much thought.

“You were pretty certain he’d be here by now.”

The truth was, he’d like to know. He _needed_ to know. What was keeping Mr. Stark from coming and getting him? Maybe, he thought, he didn’t think Peter was worth being saved. Maybe he just didn’t care.

The game of chess was a series of moves Peter no longer cared about. He went through the motions, moved his pieces across the board, but his drive was gone. He didn’t care about winning, not the way he had months ago, when he first arrived. He moved his knight, and the smirk on fake Mr. Stark’s face told him their ritual was almost over.

“Clearly,” he said, as he moved a piece across the board. “You were wrong about your Tony Stark. That’s check, by the way.”

Peter studied the board but shifted his eyes back to him. “I give up.”

“Smart boy,” he told him. “A good man knows he’s beat.”

Peter didn’t want a fight, didn’t feel like having the debate that would be sure to follow if he disagreed, so he nodded his head and started to clear the board, to put all the pieces away.

“We’re done for the day, then, huh kid?” asked fake Mr. Stark, lightly bumping Peter’s arm with a fist. “You did good. You’re finally getting good at this game, Pete.”

“Thanks,” said Peter, stiffly, hating the way the praise actually lifted his spirits, filled part of him that ached for approval.

It may have come from fake Mr. Stark, but it didn’t mean it had to be fake, right? Peter couldn’t decide. Probably, he thought, after a few hours of deliberating, it didn’t matter.

*

Fake Mr. Stark came back to visit him a second time that day.

That had never happened before, and the rush of something new lifted Peter’s spirits, gave him energy he hadn’t known he’d missed until he found it again.

He rose up off his bed, looked away from the screen of the Nintendo Switch in his hands.

“Liven up, Petey,” he told him. “I have something you need to see.”

Peter stared at him but didn’t move from his bed. He waited for the punch line, or him to change his mind. His hand was still on the doorknob, after all, and Peter wasn’t about to get up only for a door to be shut in his face.

“Hurry up, chop chop.”

“…You’re letting me leave my room?” asked Peter, trying to filter the hope from his voice.

“Not if you continue to waste my time.”

Peter scrambled off his bed and met fake Mr. Stark by the door. To his utter shock, he took his hand off the doorknob without slamming it shut. He stepped out into the hallway and beckoned for Peter to follow, so he did.

He led him through a series of hallways, and up an elevator. The doors slid open to reveal a lab, with high ceilings and all the coolest.

Fake Mr. Stark put a hand on his back and guided over to a section of the lab that displayed different editions of the Iron Man in glass cases.

That’s what they were. The colors were different, but underneath the paint, Peter was sure it was the same tech, even if fake Mr. Stark liked to say his version was better.

An order was given, to the AI installed in the building, and a new class rose up from the floor. Peter took a step forward and touched the glass.

“Is this…?” asked Peter. He looked back at fake Mr. Stark, then back at the suit in the case. It was Spider-Man, minus the red. Instead it was a glowing blue on grey, just like the Iron Man suits. “Did you make me a suit?”

He nodded. “Like it?”

Peter smiled and nodded. He’d like it even better if he could wear, if he could be Spider-Man again. Fake Mr. Stark seemed to read his read.

“How about you take it for a spin?” he asked, causally, as if he hadn’t been the one who’d locked him in a room for months and hadn’t let him out. As if Peter had the ability to leave the entire time.

“… can I?”

“I don’t see why not,” he said, in a careless tone. “Unless, of course, you’re thinking about trying to get clever and attempting to go back home.”

Peter paused a second, but, somehow, he knew just what to say to get him in that suit and out the window. “I am home.”

Mr. Stark smirked, and Peter knew he’d said the correct thing, like a password that would grant him freedom, or at least, a much larger cage.

*

Peter’s fist collided with the criminal’s jaw and it felt right.

Not exactly right. Nothing in that universe felt right. Not to Peter. It hummed with an energy that he never seemed to be in sync with, no matter how hard he tried.

He hit the criminal again, causing him to cry out in pain. Peter chuckled, slammed him up against the wall one last time, then threw him on the concrete.

Not right, he decided, but certainly _good._ It felt good. Cathartic in a way that released all the anger that built up inside, anger that was never-ending, that always came back no matter how many lowlifes he punched while out on patrol

Sometimes, he feared he would start punching and never be able to stop until his hands were soaked with blood and a lifeless body lay at his feet.

A chill went down his spine and he shuddered at the mental image. He wouldn’t let it go that far. He wouldn’t.

“Peter.”

“Yeah, Karen?”

“Boss wants me to remind you you’re approximately five minutes later for dinner.”

“Shit,” he said into his mask. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

He pointed his web-shooter to the sky and began his swing back to the Tower, where he hoped Mr. Stark was in a good mood. When he landed on the balcony of the suite’s living room, he ripped off his mask and let out a sigh of relief.

A homemade dinner sat on the table. Spaghetti and garlic bread, with a whiff of something chocolate-ly baking in the oven for dessert. This Mr. Stark was a good cook, and Peter could tell, as the man pulled plates for both of them from the cabinet with relaxed shoulders, that he was in a good mood.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Mr. Stark turned, then frowned at him. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” asked Peter. Mr. Stark poked part of his cheek and it flared with pain. “Oh, _that_. Just a bruise. Courtesy of some goon selling drugs on the street corner.”

“It needs ice,” he told him.

Peter made a move towards the freezer, but Mr. Stark shoved a plate into his chest.

“Sit down, eat. I’ll get it.”

With a nod, Peter took the plate and piled it with food. He was in the middle of sloppily shoving food into his mouth with Mr. Stark sat across from him and put the bag of ice in the middle of the table.

“Patrol went well? Besides the druggie?”

“Yeah, it was okay,” said Peter.

He was still kind of in awe Mr. Stark let him patrol, and not only that, let him police. He was in charge on the streets. He didn’t need a badge to throw people in prison, didn’t need permission to bust someone up or play judge. 

Mr. Stark once put it this way, the only person above him was God, and didn’t it feel good to almost be equals with the almighty?

It’d been strange to Peter, at first, that this Mr. Stark referred to himself as God, but after living here, he understood. Mr. Stark controlled everything, and people who lived in this universe were lucky that he did.

“Just make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose you, Pete.”

Peter smiled and went back to eating.

Forgotten were the days of breakfast over a game of logic on Peter’s bedroom floor. Now it was sit-down, family style dinners, that Peter had learned to actually enjoy, at least on the nights Mr. Stark was in a good mood.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying patrols, Peter,” said Mr. Stark, only after they got to the chocolate pie. “But I thought you might be up for something a little bit more now. A mission, if you will.”

“A mission?”

“Yep, there’s some annoying business happening upstate. I wanted to see to it myself,” said Mr. Stark, throwing his hands up. “But what can I say? I’m a little busy, ruling the world isn’t as easy as they say.” He stood from the table and fished a folder out of his briefcase. “Truth is, if I can’t do it, you’re the only one I trust to get it done.”

That was the big difference between this Mr. Stark and the one Peter left back in his home universe. This Mr. Stark trusted him with the big things. Respected him as an adult, as a near equal. Gone were the days of being treated like a child.

“Yeah,” said Peter, with a nod. “Of course. I can handle that.”

“Good,” said Mr. Stark. He dropped the folder in front of Peter and opened it with his thumb. A picture of a man Peter vaguely recognized stared up at both of them. “I need you to take care of him. He’s getting on my nerves.”

Both the implication of Mr. Stark’s words, and the harsh reality of not being able to capture and kill a trained assassin, hit him like a freight train traveling at top speeds.

Mr. Stark clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you, Petey.”

“Y-yeah,” said Peter, trying and failing, to keep the shake out of his voice.

Too late to back out now. Possibly, it’d been to late the second he slipped on the Superior Spider suit and declared that he was home.

*

Tracking down Hawkeye was easy. Too easy.

Peter had hoped it’d be harder.

He’d wished, with everything he had in him, with the parts of him that still believed in wishes, that if he did find her, he’d kick his ass and he’d be transported to a hospital, too injured to continue.

Mr. Stark would be disappointed, but he wouldn’t get angry.

He wouldn’t lock him up back in his room and ignore him as punishment, like he was prone to doing whenever Peter did something he didn’t like.

But Peter didn’t live in a fairy tale. Wishing didn’t work.

He found and captured Clint within days of his search.

He bound him wrists in cheap, leather cuffs he knew he could break out from. He told the pilot of the Quinjet to take his time, and then once they landed, he took his time walking him to Mr. Stark’s office.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked him, as they wandered through the halls, taking the long way. “Stalling? We both know Stark wanted me dead.”

“Why did you _let_ me bring you here,” snapped Peter. Sudden and wild was anger breaking free, just the way it happened with Mr. Stark. “I…” He lowered his voice. “…you could’ve escaped.”

A chance Clint wasted, time and time again. Maybe Mr. Stark was right. He did deserve to die.

Clint smiled, pained and sad. “You don’t wanna kill me. That’s not in your MO. You don’t want to kill anyone. Maybe Stark should just buy you a punching bag.”

“I don’t want to,” admitted Peter. “But I will, if – if I have to.”

He realized then that it was true. That he rather end a life than face the consequences and get on Mr. Stark’s bad side. He wasn’t sure why, wasn’t sure when he became so angry and desperate and cruel.

“I was dead the second Stark decided I was,” he went on, without invitation. “At least now my death will accomplishment something. It’ll break his favorite soldier.”

Peter recoiled at the word. “I’m not a solider. I’m more like – “

“What? A son? Do yourself a favor and ask Stark what happened to the other you.”

Logically Peter knew there must’ve been a Peter Parker who was native to this universe. Logically he didn’t let his mind dwell on it. He was afraid of what he might uncover. Instead he pushed open the door to Mr. Stark’s office with one hand and gave Clint a shove inside with the other.

Mr. Stark stood, staring out the full window, with his back turned to them.

“This better be good, Parker.” He drained the glass of whiskey in his hand and placed the empty glass on his desk.

“Mr. Stark – “

“-What have I told you about that bullshit? Talk to me like you’re a man.”

“Tony,” he amended. “Uh, I – I brought Hawkeye.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Stark, as he turned around. His eyes landed on Clint and turned cold. “Why isn’t he dead?” 

“Um – “

“Pete, considering you’re not a complete moron, I know you know what I meant when I said take care of him.”

Peter looked at the floor and heard Mr. Stark rummaging around in his desk. When he came and stood next to Peter, he had a gun in his hand. He pressed it into Peter’s palm. 

“Time to be big boy. Finish the job.”

The gun felt heavy in his hand, but the trigger was easy to squeeze once pointed at the target, once the order was given. Hawkeye fell to the floor, and Mr. Stark patted his shoulder, a job well done, even if it felt all wrong, just like the rest of the miserable world he was stuck in.

“Clean this mess up off my floor,” said Mr. Stark, stepping over the body and leaving his office.

Peter waited until he was completely gone, until his always erratic heartbeat was faint and quiet from distance, to order the cleaning staff up to the office via intercoms. He wandered off, back to his own bedroom, in a daze, repeating a mantra in his head over and over again.

That it was Clint’s fault. He’d given him a chance to run away. He didn’t take it. It was Clint’s fault he was dead. He picked the wrong side here, just like he’d picked the wrong side back in the universe Peter had been born into.

He held onto the mantra, clung to it as he stood in the shower and tried to scrub away things that could not be scrubbed away with hot water and soap. He threw up after his long shower, flushed it down, and sunk down in his bed. He didn’t get back up.


	2. dark state of mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy saturday!! here's some angst!!

Mr. Stark let Peter to stay in bed for three days.

It was three days of denying food, insisting to the Tower staff that he was sick and they should leave him alone. It was three days of fading in and out of nightmares filled with Hawkeye’s blank stare. It was terrorized sleep, but although it’d been misery, although his mind was dark and heavy, his three days ended too soon.

“You’re done pouting,” Mr. Stark told him, barging into his room without warning.

“I’m not pouting. I’m sick.”

Cautiously, Peter raised his head up out of his pile pillows and blankets. His hair fell into his eyes and he didn’t bother wiping it away. He liked it better when he didn’t have to meet Mr. Stark’s eyes.

“Uh huh, I believe you.” Mr. Stark marched over to curtains and pulled them back.

Probably, it would’ve had a better effect it the day outside wasn’t grey, dull and gloomy.

Peter collapsed back down into his pillows, only for Mr. Stark to yank him back up into a seated position by his arm.

“Listen,” said Mr. Stark. “You’re going through a hard time. I get it. I’m understanding, but the world out there is still turning. There’s still bad people that need to be put away, and believe it or not kid, you were just keeping the world safe when you pulled that trigger, got it?”

“But-“

“Nope. No time for heart to hearts. You’ve already wasted three days, and you’ve got more work to do, more missions to go on.” Mr. Stark ruffled his hair, aggressively and awkwardly. He left his bedside and began walking towards the door. “Take a shower, then it’s off to the next.” He waved his finger around at him as he left his room “I won’t let you waste your life away, Petey, you’re too talented for that.”

Mr. Stark was gone before Peter could protest, before Peter could say anything at all. He supposed it was just as well. What was he supposed to do? Say no? Mr. Stark wouldn’t hear no. He didn’t know how.

So, Peter did as he was told.

He took a shower and then went on another mission. Then another, until days became weeks, and weeks became months.

Sometimes he killed, but most of the time he didn’t. Mr. Stark knew what would bring him close to the edge and knew how to keep him from falling off it.

Peter was thankful for it, held onto it as one of the few things in his life he _could_ be thankful for, alongside the bottles of whiskey he smuggled from Mr. Stark’s office and the few nights a week he was home, in the tower, having dinner with Mr. Stark.

“I’m gonna need you to stick around,” he informed him, over one of their dinners, months after he’d forced him out of bed. “No more missions for awhile.”

He nodded and tried not to look excited about it. A long time ago he’d just wanted a chance to leave his bedroom, now he’d do anything just for a chance at rest, for a break from the never-ending orders and plans Mr. Stark dulled out.

“Why?”

“Figured it’s time for a party.”

“Oh, okay,” said Peter. He chuckled under his breath. “I guess it has been awhile since we’ve all gotten together to sing your praises.”

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow. “Don’t I deserve the worship?”

Peter laughed, something genuine that left his mouth easily. He raised his glass, filled with wine, and tipped it into his mouth. Mr. Stark dropped his fork and rested his back against his chair, pinning Peter with a look he didn’t recognize. Maybe, it was pride, but that couldn’t be. Mr. Stark was never prideful unless he was looking in a mirror.

“Sadly,” he said. “This party isn’t to celebrate me. It’s to celebrate you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. Seventeen is a big deal. Did you think I forgot?”

“No – I mean, of course not. We’ve, just, we’ve never had a party for it before.”

And Peter was fine with that.

His birthday was bittersweet.

He knew he shouldn’t miss his home world. He knew this world, this Mr. Stark, had given him a better life, filled with a bigger responsibility, even if he got tired of it at times, but it didn’t change how he felt. Another birthday here was another birthday he wasn’t home with May, in Queens, or celebrating with Ned, putting together Lego sets.

He missed them, missed of all it, so badly his chest never stopped aching. Even when it got dull or numb, the pain was there, nagging at him.

He took another drink from his glass of wine, draining it. He reached for the bottle, intending to have a refill, but Mr. Stark’s hand beat him to it.

“You’ve had enough, don’t you think?” He moved the bottle to his side of the table and left it closed. “It’s like I said, Pete. Seventeen is a big deal, and you’ve come so far. You deserve a party. Some of the admiration. You earned it.”

“Thanks Tony,” he said, then added on, when Mr. Stark continued to stare expectantly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Mr. Stark smiled the way he did when Peter said the right thing, and it made Peter wonder, just as it always did, what might happen if he said the wrong thing. He wondered if the Peter before him had ever figured it out, if that had been the very last thing he figured out.

*

Sticking around the Tower meant Peter’s thoughts had a chance to wander in a way they couldn’t when he was busy. They slipped down paths they had no business going down.

He thought about May. He hoped she wasn’t thinking about him. Maybe she didn’t even remember he was seventeen in a few days, maybe she stopped buying him presents and attempting to make cakes. Maybe, but he doubted it.

He thought about Ned and desperately wanted to know who he sat next to at lunch now he couldn’t sit next to them.

He thought about the other Mr. Stark, who definitely wasn’t thinking about him. That much was obvious. He’d been here, gotten him back, by now. Something deep and ugly whirled around in his chest. It hurt less than the absence of May, so he clung to it.

He thought about, not for the first time, Clint Barton, as he walked down the same hallway where he’d spoken his last words.

_“Do yourself a favor and ask Stark what happened to the other you.”_

Peter felt curious. Also, he felt reckless.

Peter barged into Mr. Stark’s office, without knocking. He didn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. It was the opposite. He beamed at him, and made Peter want to back out from asking the question that had haunted him on and off for months.

“Hey Pete,” said Mr. Stark. “You’re up early. I’d thought you’d want to use your free time sleeping in.”

“Don’t wanna get lazy.”

“That’s a good man,” he told him, filling him up with something that forced a grin

“Uh, Tony,” said Peter, in a rush, trying to get the words out before Mr. Stark had another chance to distract him with compliments. “I was just wondering, uh, where the other me is?”

“The other you?”

“Yeah, like, the me who was born here. In this universe.”

“Oh, him. He’s dead, Pete.”

Peter blinked. That was easy. Too easy. He’d expected to get shouted at, or for his birthday party to be cancelled, but Mr. Stark didn’t look angry or bothered. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d even say he looked kind of sad.

“…Can I ask how… he died?”

“I supposed you just did,” said Mr. Stark, with a sigh. “He was killed. Our good pal Captain America strangled him to death with his grubby hands, so I chucked him in the Raft for the rest of his miserable life. Figured death was too forgiving for a child murderer.”

“I’m – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” said Peter, shuffling his feet and realizing he was standing on the same patch of carpet Hawkeye had took his last breath. He moved a couple steps over. “Just, I’m really sorry that happened.”

Mr. Stark smiled at him, somehow both forgiving and sad. “It’s okay, Peter. You’re curious. Just like me. Besides, it worked out didn’t it? I’ve got my replacement and he’s never seeing natural light again. All is right.”

Mr. Stark gave him an awkward, half hug and a pat on the shoulder, letting go just as Peter realized he was referring to him.

He was a replacement.

Whoever Peter Parker of this universe had been to Mr. Stark, son or soldier, he’d been so wrecked by his death he hopped universes to find another. Sounded a little unstable, sure, but weren’t they all, thought Peter. Wasn’t everyone?

*

Peter’s birthday party glittered and shined, but only reminded him of everything it wasn’t. Nothing compared to the grime, the grittiness, of a birthday party in Queens, with a burnt cake and sloppy icing and May singing to him in a terrible pitch.

He took a long drink of his whiskey when Mr. Stark’s eyes landed on him from across the room. He was holding court with a group of his puppets in the government. Peter didn’t know why America, or even the rest of the world, pretended.

Mr. Stark was God in this universe, and at the moment, as he stalked across the room, God didn’t look very happy with him.

He gripped his elbow and directed him over to the refreshment table, whispering in his ear, “If you’re gonna get sloshed at your own party, you could at least cut yourself a piece of cake and try to pretend like you’re having fun.”

Mr. Stark left him and went back to his admirers, taking the glass of whiskey with him.

Peter stared up at the perfectly decorated, three-tiered birthday cake, and wanted to punch it. Knock it off the table or push one of Mr. Stark’s puppets into it. He didn’t, though. He did what he was told. He ate some cake and was pissed off that it was actually good.

“You look bored.”

“Oh, hey, Nat,” said Peter, shoving another fork full of just icing in his mouth.

“And you smell like Tony’s liquor cabinet,” said Nat, creasing her face. “What? Trying to become an alcoholic before you’re eighteen?”

Peter shrugged. “Just trying to get through the night.”

“Something bothering you, Pete?”

“Something’s always bothering me,” he told her, wanting to stay vague but also needing to spill to someone, anyone.

The truth was dangerous with her, though. Peter didn’t trust Black Widow. He suspected she either spied for Mr. Stark or on Mr. Stark, and either one of those meant his secrets were safe, not with her, but just that, at that moment it didn’t matter. Words flew out of Peter’s mouth before he had a chance to stop them.

“Did you ever meet him? The other… me?”

“A few times,” said Nat. “He wasn’t nearly as charming as you, or polite.”

“Tony said he was killed by Captain America,” said Peter. He shook his head. “I just – I don’t understand things here. Everything’s so… flip flopped and weird. Back where I’m from Captain America threw a bus at me, but he wasn’t a murder… not like that.”

“You think Tony’s lying to you,” stated Nat. Peter didn’t like that about her. Didn’t enjoy the idea that his rambling was so easily interpreted and translated into just a few words. “Maybe it would help if you talked to this world’s Steve. It might bring you some clarity.”

“But he’s on the Raft.”

Nat laughed, then rolled her eyes. “Peter, you’re a prince. You can do whatever you want, and if talking to some old prisoner is what you need to do, all you need to do is ask. I’ll arrange it for you.”

Peter’s eyes shifted back over to Mr. Stark. He was no longer paying attention to anything other than the sound of his own voice. As it turned out, God had some flaws. He was in love with himself, and it made a perfect distraction.

Peter lowered his voice. “And you won’t tell Tony?”

“Not unless he asks.”

“Okay,” said Peter. “I want to go. I want to talk to Steve.”

*

The day Peter was set to visit the raft, he hid in the Tower library, searching through the fiction books, while he waited for the message from Nat telling him the jet was ready. It’d taken her a couple of days to arrange his visit, and Peter had been avoiding Mr. Stark, though his attempts, especially his current one, were useless in a building filled with AI.

Mr. Stark always found him.

He appeared sudden at the end of the aisle, just as Peter stood on his tippy toes and slid a book back up on the highest shelf. 

“Oh, hey Tony,” said Peter. “I was just – I was –“

“Hiding from me?”

“Um, no –“

“It’s okay, Pete,” he said. “I get it. I’ve been –“ He paused and titled his head towards the exit. “Let’s go have a chat, alright?”

Peter, not really having a choice, nodded, and followed Mr. Stark out of the library and into one of the living rooms, where they sat down on the couch and Mr. Stark apologized. He told him he’d been too harsh on him. That he’d sent him away on missions when he’d been struggling. That it was Mr. Stark’s fault Peter liked to drink, but from then on out, it was going to be different.

Mr. Stark was cancelling all his missions, scaling back on all his responsibilities. No more hotel rooms, in foreign countries, trying to track down the various people and mutants that had somehow pissed him off. Peter was staying home.

He’d go back to patrolling.

They would be a proper family.

And then, Mr. Stark gave him a hug. A real one, with warmth instead of awkwardness, and it was everything Peter didn’t know he needed.

“I…” said Mr. Stark, just before he ended their conversation and left him in the living room. “I regret not getting to know him, the other you, and I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

Peter listened as Mr. Stark’s footsteps faded away, down the hall, and into an elevator. His phone dinged with the message he’d been waiting, though now his heart was conflicted, and his decision was unmade.

Whatever truth waited for him at the Raft would almost certainly destroy any chance that he and Mr. Stark had at being a real family, and Peter was no longer convinced he needed or wanted to hear what Captain America had to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added another chapter to this and it'll be up on Monday, for the prompt farewell forever !! 
> 
> thanks so much for reading!!


	3. farewell forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter !! it's finally here!!

Peter climbed up on the jet, behind Nat, but not without some reservations.

It was risky, trusting Nat, and he was sure it’d probably been a mistake, became even more sure as the jet propelled them all into the air.

Peter hadn’t noticed it before, the tightness in Black Widow’s jaw, the tension in her shoulders. He only noticed it once it wasn’t there anymore. Once she became relaxed, and more relaxed, the further they flew from the Tower.

He tried to swallow his dread, the awful knot tightening in his stomach. It was too late now, too late to go back, too late even before he ever even put on foot on the jet.

The Raft’s call to him, he realized, as he stepped inside the prison’s doors, was too strong to resist. He had to know the truth if he was ever going to find some peace, had to know Mr. Stark was telling him the truth if they ever stood a chance at being a real family.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Nat told him, as Peter stepped in front of the glass that caged Captain America and stared down the man in the box.

Her footsteps clicked away, and that made Peter nervous. He preferred to be able to see her while she was, no doubt, betraying him.

“I heard Tony got another spider assassin,” said Steve. He stood up from his bed and took a step closer to the glass.

He was a shadow of the Captain America Peter fought at the airport, in his native universe, all those years ago. He wore drab, grey prison scrubs and a gruffy beard. His pale skin looked unhealthy, unnatural, like they weren’t feeding the prisoners here, or Steve was sick with something medicine couldn’t cure.

“But you don’t really look like a killer.”

Peter darkened his eyes. Maybe once he would’ve been relieved to hear it, now it just annoyed him. “Appearances are tricky.”

Steve hummed in agreement.

“He wouldn’t have had to get a new one,” said Peter, perfectly happy to shift the blame of his situation on Steve’s shoulders. It seemed fitting. “If you hadn’t killed the last one.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Does losing something justify stealing from someone else?”

“What justifies murder, I wonder.”

“Clearly if it’s done on someone else’s order.”

Something snapped on his insides and he slammed his fist against the glass separating him and Steve, temporary wishing it would break. Just until he came back to his senses and took a breath, regaining his purpose.

“You’re the one who killed a child,” said Peter. “There’s no justification for that.”

“Maybe not, but I’m not looking to justify myself. I’ve made plenty mistakes.”

Peter frowned at him, confused.

“I knew Peter Parker before Tony did,” said Steve. “Just this nerdy fourteen-year-old with some bad luck. Spent a few years bouncing around foster care homes after his aunt and uncle were gunned down in a robbery, but he was like you. With the spider powers.”

Peter’s mind reeled, his chest ached, grieving for the May of this world, who’d had the same fate as Ben. Peter couldn’t imagine. He didn’t want to.

“I knew we couldn’t let Tony get to him,” he went on. “He was powerful, like yourself, and god knows, Tony Stark didn’t need any more power, but we were too late and within just a year, Peter Parker regular kid to one of the most dangerous people alive. He was more than just Tony’s assassin. He liked the hunt. He _enjoyed_ the kill. Did it for sport, even when he wasn’t ordered to.”

“So you killed him?” asked Peter, unable to let himself believe anything Steve was telling him was the truth. Despite what he said, he was just trying to justify it, to himself and to Peter.

“I did,” said Steve. “I’d do it again, to keep the people he terrorized safe.”

Peter felt lighter, in a way. Relieved. Mr. Stark had told him exactly what had happened, told him the truth without hesitation. That now they could be a family, even if it was a twisted and distorted version of what the was supposed to be.

“It only took Tony a year to take this normal kid and turn him into a monster,” said Steve. “You’ve hung on for two, but even still, it’s time for you to go home.”

“Home?” Something about Steve’s tone suggested he meant something other than back home to the Tower.

Peter’s head snapped to the side with the sound a loud rumble. The lights went off and an alarm started to sound, only for a few seconds. The noise halted almost as suddenly as it started, and when the lights came back on, Mr. Stark stood at the end of the long, prison hallway.

Not his Mr. Stark.

The other one. He wore red and gold armor, and an expression that made Peter ball his hands into fists. An expression that suggested he actually cared.

“Peter?” he asked. He took a step forward. Peter stared, while he rubbed his wrists against his sides, double-checking to see if his web-shooters were secure around them. They were. “Peter… it’s me, buddy.”

Peter looked back at Steve. “What did you do?”

“From in here?” said Steve, lifting his hands. “How could I do anything?” 

Peter looked back at Mr. Stark, who was still approaching slowly.

“Kid, it’s okay. We’re here to take you home.”

The dread came back in Peter’s stomach. He shouldn’t have trusted Black Widow, shouldn’t have gotten on the jet or let his idiotic need to seek the truth lead him to the Raft. There was just one thing to do now, one way out of this and back to the Tower, where his Mr. Stark waited for him.

He took a steadying breath and controlled the rage pumping through his veins, the rage brought on by seeing the man he hated the most.

“Mr. Stark?” he asked. He took a step forward.

“Kid.” Relief flooded Iron Man’s unmasked face as he closed the rest of the distance between them. He stretched out his arms, an attempt for a hug, but only succeeded in giving Peter the opportunity to shove him. Hard.

Mr. Stark stumbled backwards. The shock and hurt that flashed across Mr. Stark’s face felt satisfying, soothed his rage, and Peter needed more. He took a swing, but Mr. Stark was ready that time and caught his fist in his metal covered hand.

“We’re on the same team,” he told him in a gentle voice, no longer shocked or hurt. Just understanding. Compassionate. It pissed Peter off. “We’re all here to take you home.”

“You’re too late,” said Peter. He pulled his hand back, out of Mr. Stark’s grasp. “This is my home now.”

“No it isn’t. Let’s do this the easy way, alright? You’ll be back with Aunt May before supper.”

The name stabbed at him in a way he didn’t think it would. Missing May from afar, missing her and knowing he’d never be able to see her again was torture, but it was safe. Being confronted by the now very real possibility of seeing her again, seeing her after all the bad things he’s done, wrecked him. Terrified him.

He swung at Mr. Stark a second time, wildly and desperately. He didn’t block him or catch his punch, didn’t do anything at all to stop him. Mr. Stark took it, and took it a second time, and again and again, until Peter felt the sting of his hand hitting metal and withdrew.

“Fight back,” said Peter.

“I’m not gonna fight you, Peter,” said Mr. Stark. “We’re going home.”

Just as he spoke the words, two Black Widows fell from the rafters, landed at Iron Man’s side. Two Captain Americas, one that somehow freed himself from his prison cell, and another in uniform, joined Mr. Stark on his other side.

“You’re all working together?” asked Peter. He looked at Nat. The one who’d suggested he come here. “You tricked me.”

She simply shrugged. “Tony had my friend killed. You’re lucky we’re just sending you home.”

Peter couldn’t take all of them. Not all at the same time, but he was ready to go down trying. He crouched down, got into position, readying himself, when someone cleared their throat.

“Behind you.”

Peter turned, then jumped, coming face to face with the man he’d killed. Flashbacks haunted him, hit his mind unbidden. As Hawkeye approached, Peter backed up, until he couldn’t anymore, couldn’t he’d backed right into Iron Man, who took the opportunity to grab both his arms and hold him still.

“Light’s out,” said Hawkeye, stabbing him with a needle.

“What – “asked Peter. His mouth was already heavy and sloppy, his limps useless and lifeless as he went limp in Mr. Stark’s arms. “What was that?”

“Just a sedative,” said Mr. Stark. He lowered him to the ground and swiped his hair from his forehead. Peter didn’t remember his hair being that long and couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten it cut. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Too tired to speak, Peter put all his hatred in one glare as his world started to go black and could only hope it conveyed the amount of disgust, he wanted Mr. Stark to feel.

*

Peter woke up to the sound of a hospital monitor. It was all too familiar, and it took a couple of seconds to realize it was more than familiar.

It was right.

The air around him, the hum of his universe’s energy in sync with his own. He belonged here. He knew without opening his eyes or hearing everyone speak. He was back where he belonged, even if he didn’t deserve to be.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Mr. Stark sat in chair the next to the bed, face in his phone and full of worry. It didn’t take him long to realize Peter was looking at him, and when he did, he put his phone on the table and scooted his chair closer.

“Are you… how are you feeling?”

“You let a Robin Hood wannabe stab me with a needle,” said Peter, his voice raspy. “How do you think I’m feeling?”

Mr. Stark’s face fell at the venom in Peter’s. “Technically you’re the one who let him stab you… you looked pretty spooked. Wanna talk about it?”

Peter didn’t see the point, as it seemed like somehow Mr. Stark already knew. That, somehow, probably via Nat the traitor, he’d been pretty filled in about his life in the other universe, his time spent with the other Mr. Stark.

“Please just leave me alone,” said Peter. “You had no problem doing just that for the last two years.”

“Peter…” said Mr. Stark. “You really believe we haven’t been doing everything to find you? To get you back? You just… disappeared. It took us a year to even figure out you were in the multiverse. We never stopped.”

Peter blinked and looked away, just in time for the door to his room to creak open.

May stepped out from behind the door and into the room, and Peter shifted under the blankets and looked away.

“Peter?”

“No,” he said. He looked at Mr. Stark. “Get her out of here.”

“Pete – that’s your aunt.”

“I don’t care,” said Peter, raising his voice, his heart pumping in his ears. “Get her out.”

Mr. Stark stared at him, a cross between disbelief and confusion on his face. His eyes moved back and forth between him and the door, before standing up and walking over to the door.

Peter didn’t look at May a second time. Just watched the door once both she and Mr. Stark were gone.

“He just needs some space,” he heard Mr. Stark tell May, as their footsteps faded away.

*

Later that night Peter figured out no one had thought to lock his door.

He padded across the room, wearing the pajamas and socks the medical staff had given him, and turned the knob, smiling in relief as it came open with a creak and he slipped into the hallway.

The Compound was unfamiliar to him, but he found the common area pretty fast. The liquor cabinet behind the bar wasn’t locked yet, and Peter had his pick of the good stuff. At least both Mr. Starks had good taste in alcohol.

He grabbed a bottle of his favorite whiskey and turned, only to see Nat and Clint watching at him from the dining room table. Clint’s appearance wasn’t as alarming a second time, but Peter still avoided looking at him.

“The other me warned us about your alcohol problem,” said Nat.

“It isn’t a problem,” said Peter. “More like a hobby.”

“Okay,” said Clint, leaning sideways in his chair. “We’ll grab some glasses and all have a drink together.”

“Or maybe this is more of a… solo hobby,” finished Nat.

Peter wasn’t stupid. He knew what they were implying and didn’t care for it.

He put the bottle down on the table in front of Nat. “I’m just used to better company.”

He left them without another word and went back to his room. He slipped under his covers and stared at the ceiling, missing the Nat that had called him a prince and claimed he could do whatever he wanted.

There might not have been a lock on the door, but home was more restrictive than any of them wanted to admit.

*

On his second day they moved him out of the medbay and into a room in Mr. Stark’s suite.

It was large and spacious and laid out exactly like the one he’d had back in the other universe. He supposed he’d have to get used to the eerily similarities, how things weren’t and were the same.

Peter played Super Mario on a Nintendo Switch when Mr. Stark barged into the room without knocking. He didn’t pause it or look up to acknowledge his presence. Mr. Stark ripped the game console from his hands.

“Hey,” said Peter. “I was facing a boss.”

“Don’t care,” said Mr. Stark. “We have somethings we need to talk about. First thing. The liquor cabinet is off-limits.”

“It wasn’t locked.”

“It doesn’t have to be locked. Me telling you is enough. Don’t touch it.”

“Is that all?”

“Nope,” said Mr. Stark. “Your aunt’s coming back over for a visit today.”

Peter opened his mouth to protest, only to get cut off.

“It’s happening. Be nice to her, or at least listen to what she has to say. She really missed you. We all did,” said Mr. Stark. “Still do. We’re hoping you’re gonna come back to us soon.”

Mr. Stark released a breath and put the Nintendo Switch down on the bed. It was too late. Mario had already died, and Peter didn’t pick it back up to try again. He shoved the console off his bed and listened to it hit the carpet.

*

“So, that’s it, huh?” asked May. She’d been in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed, for a few minutes, but that was the first time she spoke. “You’re not even looking to look at me?”

Peter sat in his desk chair and kept his gaze out his window, rocking himself back and forth slowly on the chair’s wheels with the tip of his toes.

“Fine, but you don’t fool me, kiddo,” she said. “I know what you’re doing.”

He really, really didn’t think so. The idea May could how painful it was to sit there, in the same room with her and the knowledge the of what he’s done, what’s turned into, was horrifying and ridiculous and Peter wouldn’t even let his mind wander in that direction.

He gripped the armrests on his chair and hoped her visit would end quickly.

“Do you remember when Ben and I took you Coney Island for the first time?”

Peter remembered the day, remembered the sunshine, remembered the way he looked forward to it for weeks before. He laughed a lot that day. He’d been seven and he’d still believed that the world was okay.

“It was a good day,” said May. “Up until you got into your very first fist fight outside the tilt-a-whirl.”

“That kid was a punk,” said Peter, unable to keep the promise he’d made to himself, the promised to stay silent. He kept his eyes out the window. “He kept keeping the girl in front of us.”

“Ben was so proud. I gave him a good scolding after you went to bed for antagonizing that boy’s father.” 

Ben had also gotten him cotton candy flavored ice cream and complimented his right hook, but it hadn’t done anything to get Peter to stop crying. The ice cream didn’t stop his stomach from turning with guilt, didn’t stop him thinking about the way blood had poured from the other boy’s nose and that his hand was what had caused it.

“And I’ll never forget when I went to tuck you into bed, I couldn’t find you,” said May. “You were hiding under a pile of blankets in your closet, and you wouldn’t let me give you goodnight hugs and kisses. You were just so ashamed of what you did, you said you didn’t deserve to be tucked in.”

Peter blinked and felt like a veil had been lifted, like he was seeing, for the first time since he was taken, what had happened to him. That fake Mr. Stark had been fake and his spell of pretend care was broken and all Peter was left with was regret.

“Honey I don’t what you’ve been doing. I don’t what he made you do, but I know there’s nothing you could do that to get me to stop loving you. I’m here no matter what.”

A sob forced its way up through his aching chest. “You can’t – you don’t know – “

“I don’t have to know, unless you want me to. I’m not going anywhere either way.”

When his eyes finally landed on May, they do exactly what he’d been trying to avoid, something he had done since the first few weeks of being locked up in fake Mr. Stark’s tower. They got watery, teary, and yet, Peter still couldn’t look away from May.

He missed her. He missed her _so much_.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, as May was getting up off the bed and walking towards him. She hugged him, awkward from his position in the desk chair, but it was real and warm. He laid his head down on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

He sobbed, and she held him, and the rest of the world disappeared.

*

Peter was hovering somewhere between sleep and awake when he heard his bedroom door creak open. May was still there, sitting on the bed with him, while her hands went through his hair, and while everything else was unclear, a bit hazy, the words she spoke were clear.

“I want him dead.”

“We’ve promised not to get involved.” It was Mr. Stark’s voice. Gruff, and regretful. “Aside from bringing Peter home, the Avengers of his Earth don’t want outsiders interfering.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I think they can pull it off. I gave them a list of all my weak spots, felt a little wrong, but-“ Mr. Stark stopped, paused. “They can do it. He’ll be off his game, with Peter gone. Trust me.”

A silence settled over the room, and Peter was more awake now, his mind wandering in what exact way fake Mr. Stark would miss him. Would he miss his attack dog, his sometimes assassin, or would he miss a son? Peter didn’t dwell, deciding he truly didn’t want to know.

Both options had implications he wasn’t ready to unpack.

“So, listen,” said Mr. Stark. “I’m gonna set you two up with your own suite here in the Compound. He’s gonna have to stay for a while, for observation, just a formality, really, and a bunch of bullshit Steve had me agree to, but it’ll be private. You two will be on your own.”

May’s hand stopped moving, stopped playing with his hair. “Sounds like you’re bailing.”

“I think it’s better that I do. He’s not exactly my biggest fan anymore, May. He hates me.”

“He’s confused, and you know that,” said May. “Don’t you dare abandon him, right now, when he needs you the most. We spent two years trying to get him back, we’re just going to have to work a little bit longer.”

Mr. Stark gave a nervous, chuckle. The kind of laugh someone made when nothing was funny.

“You know, it’s always been my worst fear, since the day we met, that I’d slip up, that Peter would see the darkest side of me… and now he looks at me the same way I looked at my father… I just – I’m sorry he had to see it.” He stopped, paused again, and May resumed running her fingers through Peter’s hair. “I want him dead too. That me.”

“One day at a time, Tony,” said May. “We’ll get through this one day at a time. Together.”

Her voice was still clear and confidence, so much so that Peter believed her. He wondered if Mr. Stark did, too.

*

The next time Peter woke up May was asleep. Careful not to wake her, Peter rolled off his bed and put his feet on the floor. His steps were light as he left his room and wandered into the kitchen, where Mr. Stark sat at the table, the dull light from a laptop highlighting all the worry lines in his face.

Peter stopped. The two stared at each other, and Mr. Stark released a weary sigh.

“I’m not gonna let you drink, Peter.”

“Um,” said Peter, hating the sound of his own voice, how it sounded weak and vulnerable, after all the sobbing that had put him to sleep. “I was actually just… looking for some ice cream.”

Mr. Stark tilted his up at him, surprised and relieved. “That I can help you with.”

He got a bowl out of the cabinet and a tub of ice cream out of the freezer. When Peter moved to make himself a bowl, Mr. Stark shut his laptop and made a move to exit the kitchen.

“Mr. Stark,” said Peter. He felt a sense of dread that he was about to be corrected, then a sense of relief when he realized he was mixing up his Mr. Starks. He didn’t have to pretend to be comfortable using first names. Not with this one. “I could use some company. I don’t really want to be alone.”

He thought for a few seconds Mr. Stark might leave him in the dark kitchen alone, anyway. Kind of hoped for it. He’d deserved it, but after a few seconds, he walked a bit closer and got a second bowl out of the cabinet.

They sat at the kitchen table, one empty chair between them, in silence. Nothing but the sound of their spoons scrapping the bottom of their bowls to fill the quiet, until they both finished, and Mr. Stark spoke.

“How are you feeling?” asked Mr. Stark. It was almost like old times. Almost. Now there was this doubt in Peter’s head that Mr. Stark actually cared to know the answer. “Without your drug?”

“Not great.”

He hadn’t realized how much he’d been depending on alcohol until he couldn’t have it. Didn’t know it was a problem until it was too late, the same way he’d forgotten how terrible the other Mr. Stark, how terrible the stuff he made him do was, until he heard Mr. Stark say his aunt’s name.

His mind was wide awake now, aware, and needed numbing more than ever.

“I can help you with that,” said Mr. Stark. “If you let me.”

“Okay,” said Peter, though it was soft. More like a whisper than an actual agreement. “I’ll try.”

He didn’t know if it was ever going to be possible to stop mixing up the Mr. Stark of his world and the one who he’d been stuck with for two years. It was easy in moments like that. In moments when his voice was gentle and the lights were out, and Peter was almost sure his aunt was right.

They were all going to okay. Just one day at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! I hope you all enjoyed!! 
> 
> I'm thinking about doing an extended version of this, after febuwhump and once I finish my hydra fic, if anyone is interested?? I had a lot of ideas for this one that didn't get executed or executed well since I didn't have much time!! let me know if it's something you'd be interested in reading
> 
> tomorrow is... fluffy there's a slip n slide involved

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! 
> 
> kudos and/or comments let me know what you think! 
> 
> [or come yell at me on tumblr](https://hailing-stars.tumblr.com)


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